


Charlie Reborn

by themainthings



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Gen, Pastiche, bad descriptions of art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28124871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themainthings/pseuds/themainthings
Summary: “She is the most exquisite woman I have ever set eyes on. A smile like the morning’s dew.” A wobbly expression passed over Charlie’s face. “But I require your advice. Well, if you would put it to Jeeves."
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Charlie Reborn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zzzp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zzzp/gifts).



> This was some of the most fun I've had writing this year - so thank you for the prompt to create something new in the tone of the original.
> 
> Thank you as well to [ianthebroome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianthebroome/pseuds/ianthebroome) for the Brit-pick. Any remaining errors are mine.
> 
> Some notes on setting at the end.

I must tell you, before we go on, about that matter of Charlie Toffleton-Best. I met old Chas at a gathering of a Society I will not name, which had a habit of loitering in musées d’art. Clearing the windpipes before a Rembrandt allows a chap to gather the attention of the room and from that pinnacle declare, “The light, rather,” or “I must say, the texture.” Many’s a member of the Society who has thus attracted the eye of the fairer sex, and then pressed his suit before a Vermeer. With J.V. behind you, you stood a chance.

The trouble was the sort of girl you were likely to flush out might presuppose you had a stock of artistic sentiment. A great many engagements had foundered on the rocks of fogginess _in re_ the French. Jeeves—my man, a fellow with a psychic’s vision in affairs _de coeur_ —once rallied round after a confusion of Monet and Manet threatened disaster. There were breakers ‘neath the bow as the poet puts it. When you require a steady hand on the helm, Jeeves is the man for it.

But to the matter of the moment. Charlie had then the demeanour of a gaffed fish. His colour faltered at the collar and hoisted the white flag entirely by the jaw. His eyes darted as though a beast with a taste for the flesh of man might appear from the shadows at any moment. He looked as if some animating spirit had begun breathing life into a statue and been called away partway through. The whole of him put together unsettled a fellow. You were better off looking at him at the obliques, the way you might crouch for a last effort at par.

“I am,” Charlie said bleakly, “in love.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, and with my eyes appealed to Jeeves for succour. He drifted from his polishing to the kitchen and flowed back with the bolstering whisky-and-soda.

“Lula,” Charlie sighed.

I clutched feebly at the thread of the conversation. “Lula.”

“A ray of sun over the desolate moor.”

“I see your point.”

“I am changed, Bertie, utterly. I am no longer the man I was.”

I busied myself with my drink, turning it to admire the colour and so forth.

“She is the most exquisite woman I have ever set eyes on. A smile like the morning’s dew.” A wobbly expression passed over Charlie’s face. “But I require your advice. Well, if you would put it to Jeeves. You see, she and I were acquainted at the Gallery.”

The shape of the thing began to form.

“And she’s intimated that the oils set her heart aflutter.”

“Lula.”

Charlie’s face reorganised from rapturous to peevish. “Yes, Lula; who else?”

“It’s no trouble, then. There’s an exhibit coming, portraits or something, don’t you know.”

The man sagged in his seat as a bachelor whose aged relative has just taken a rest from lobbing the stuff of war over the battlements and agreed to a truce for tea. “That’s just the trouble,” he moaned. “She’s asked me to accompany her.”

“To the Gallery.”

“What shall I say, Bertie! It’s all very well to wave one’s hand at a water lily and remark upon the blue or what have you, but not when the pearl of one’s heart has one fixed in its sights!”

“This is all rather rummy, you know.”

“It’s why I’m here.”

“Springing this on a fellow midday, without even a telegram of warning.”

But the spears of love, I saw, had sharpened their points. Another moan arose from the chair. “I appeal to you as a friend in time of deepest need.”

He had taken me out at the ankles, as that Trojan fellow. We Woosters pride ourselves on never turning away those in need. “I’ll address it to Jeeves,” I said.

Charlie shot up, his eyes aflame. It was as if someone had discovered his inner light for the first time and chucked a load of oil in. “Thank you, my dear man.” he said fervently, his brow shining. “Thank you.”

“Jeeves,” I said, when Charlie had gone and I’d recounted his tale of woe. “This is the area in which you most excel.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jeeves spared a cool glance for my pocket square. He thought the roulotté, in his words, gauche. I had pointed out that if we might borrow one _je ne sais quoi_ from the French we might borrow another, and since then what freezings I had felt. It was nothing in his manner, but rather in the way his molecules brought a chill with them into the drawing-room, like Caesar bunging his ghost into people’s tents from the afterlife.

“What the deuce should we do about it?”

“It is a delicate situation, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“Mr. Toffleton-Best’s, sir. Having attracted the attention of the young lady, he feels now unable to ascend the lofty heights to which she no doubt feels he ought already belong.”

“A dashed difficult puzzle. Any ideas?”

“If I may, sir, I am acquainted with a member of staff at the Academy. With your permission, I might inquire after a tutor.”

“A tutor?”

“In the area of art history, sir. I would suggest that Mr. Toffleton-Best might appeal to this tutor for an introduction to such expertise as he would require to hold his own in conversation.”

“You’re saying Charlie would learn to hold forth, as it were, on the finer points.”

Jeeves directed a faintly pained look at the chair from which Charlie had proclaimed his love. “He might, sir, attain the minimum required to further his suit.”

The man seemed simply infallible. “Topping idea, Jeeves. I feel sure he’ll go along.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll make the inquiries?”

“I shall endeavour to do so, sir.”

“Well, good night then, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

I retired on a wave of positive feeling. I could imagine no way in which this scheme of Jeeves’s could fail to enliven the heart that never tires and win fair Lula’s graces.

***

I was called away the following week on one errand or another, and when I had returned I found the matter already well in hand. Charlie was, by own account, making quick work of the Middle Ages, though he confessed to lack of fortitude when it came to identifying angels.

“One does,” he said into his drink, “mix up one’s Michaels and Gabriels.”

I patted him on the back encouragingly. “Out of the whole of creation, you’ve dispatched all but four centuries.”

“The tutor says I have the eye of a glaucomic anemone.” He fixed me with a baleful stare. I could, though I did not mention it, see the resemblance.

“My dear chap, put it out of your mind. You are not going into the painting business.”

Charlie clutched at his head. “I am dates.”

“What’s that, now?”

“Dates, and painters. Do you know the long and short of it, Bertie: I have been subjected to the indignity of no fewer than eighty-seven paintings and directed to commit their dates and creators to memory.” His hands sought the sleeve of my jacket, which Jeeves had laid out in that way of his which is both sublimely respectful and leaves a chap feeling as though he’s just been shoved into the street.

“The pearl of your heart,” I reminded him. I imagined myself rather as one of the field marshals, mustering his men for battle, with rousing words rising like sea creatures from the depths of the soul’s true feeling. “Buck up, old man.”

Hope stirred the dark veil of his despair. “Her voice is as radiant as the silvery moonlight,” he chanced.

I had got into the spirit of it now. “Right-ho. You have seen worse sights than this.”

“Than Lula?”

“Than Gabriels.”

“Who’s Gabriel?”

I realised we had veered from the track. “No matter. What’s important is Lula.”

“She is the long and short of it.” His expression was that of a member of a tableau vivant who had suddenly recalled a terrible boating accident. “One can endure any privation for one’s truest love.”

I struck the table with my fist. “By Jove, no man will hurl you down to Hades!”

Charlie frowned. “What man?”

“That’s what I’ve just said, isn’t it, that no man will.”

“There’s another man?”

At times in that stretch of time between dinner and breakfast, what they call in the papers the early hours, it is best to turn such spectres out. Many’s the evening ended with a bit of a dust-up arising from the ill-chosen word. I clasped his shoulder. “Charlie, my dear fellow, screw forwardish, stick your fears, etcetera.”

I must admit that although we Woosters are remarkably light on our wits, when re-examined in the the light of day the speech did not rank among my most eloquent. But it achieved its purpose; Charlie subsided. “Would you come with us?”

“Come with you?”

His visage burned with a passion I had thought extinguished. “To the Gallery. For the sake of morale.”

I thought my morale should not be boosted by such a venture and said as much, only to be faced by a pair of eyes appealing with deepest fervour.

“It is my darkest hour, Bertie.”

“Is it, what?”

“The moment of which the great poets write.”

“Several of them, at least.”

“The thought of losing my nerve sends such terror through me. My skull is stuffed with art, Bertie. Festooned. If I open my mouth I shall leak triptychs.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

The clouds began to gather once more. “Say you’ll come.”

This really was the limit. It’s one thing to help a chap out in his time of need, to lubricate the old cerebellum and send it dashing along the racecourse, but it’s another to zip along in the passenger-seat. But, I reflected, struck by the flush that had for the first time in memory risen nearly to Charlie’s cheeks, one has to make allowances for the wallopings of love. “I’ll come.”

“You are a true friend, Bertie Wooster,” Charlie said. He said some more, too, compliments of the highest calibre, before we made the acquaintance of a group of young men in the corner who, it so happened, knew ten things to do with an egg. The fourth and tenth now escape me.

***

“I say, Jeeves,” I said in the morning, after enjoying an hour’s simple pleasure of watching the traffic pass. “This idea of yours has struck gold.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I rather think Charlie might have it in him to exchange some light repartee with the young lady in question.”

“Most felicitous, sir.”

“I hadn’t known he was the sort to take a swing at this sort of thing.”

“Conversation, sir?”

“Well, his gift for comparing a perfectly good woman to a stiff breeze or a following sea did come as a surprise, but I was referring to this bally tendency to fall in love.”

“I see, sir.”

“And induce a sort of what’d-you-call-it back.”

“A reciprocal feeling, sir?”

“Feeling of the first order.”

“Indeed, sir?”

At the particular intonation of the ‘indeed,’ a shiver rattled the vertebrae. We had, then, made truce but not peace over the pocket squares. “We’ve had occasion, Jeeves, to discuss the way your ‘indeed’ recalls to a fellow the sort of conversation he might have with a school-mate who feels not a little vinegary toward him.”

I could see the ‘indeed, sir?’ forming, but Jeeves is the most consummate professional and lopped it off at the pass.

“Very well, sir.”

“I know we have had our differences of opinion, but I hope that we can set aside the matter of roulotté and throw our weight in behind this poor specimen’s flutterings of the heart.”

“Most assuredly, sir.”

A wave of generosity swept me stem to stern. “You may lay out the grey with the blue check,” I told him.

“Yes, sir.”

“With the blue tie.”

I do not believe I imagined the gratitude that sparked in his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

So it was that I arrived at the Gallery decked in the grey with blue check, and with my pocket square neatly folded, for while his keen schemes deserved reward, give Jeeves an inch and he would run roughshod over any attempt at fashion. Do not mistake my meaning: he is brilliant at his job, but dreadfully stuck in his ways. It is through the march of forward progress that we enjoy lights indoors and so forth. One must at times attempt a cummerbund or a tie outside one’s natural milieu.

Charlie, the sort of hapless amphibian to find dry land outside his milieu, stood on the steps. He muttered something to the auditory effect of, “Leapy leapy.”

“What ho, Charlie!”

His face had a touch of fever about it. “Bertie, I can’t.”

All this back-and-forth did strain the faculties, but I endeavoured to steer us home. “Say the word, old man, and we’ll unpin Cupid’s arrow.”

“It’s too late,” said Charlie, his gaze having lit upon fair Lula. Following the sort of look a saint bestows his martyrer the poor man gathered what strands of dignity remained and marionetted himself into a bit of hand-pressing. We did the usual, each one of us naming the others and commenting a bit on the sky’s general trimmings and whether this year would be warmer than last. You know the stuff. Then there was nothing for it but to chin up and face the art.

“I so admire the eye of the baroque masters,” Lula said dreamily.

It provided just the sort of moment a chap could hop onto with a well-placed ‘hallo,’ but none emanated from Charlie’s quarter.

“The baroque masters,” I said at volume, in case love had struck Charlie a bit high on the temple.

“Yes,” Charlie said distractedly.

We paused before a painting of some johnnies laughing at a candle.

“Oh,” said Lula, with a gesture like she intended to rev up an orchestra, “I adore this use of the chiaroscuro.”

“Yes, rather,” Charlie said. “The….” He weathered the top half of the word but the latter two syllables, not to put too fine a point on it, vanquished him.

I saw at once that it was time to rally the reinforcements. I threw myself on the proverbial sword. It is common knowledge that upon encountering an ignorant party a woman of culture will stop at nothing to cure him of his ignorance, and so I did my best to present her with such a party. In no more than a handful of minutes I knew how those Egyptian blokes must have felt when having just endured a flaming hail storm they chanced the outdoors only to be clocked again by the locusts. We had cleared the hall by the time she stopped for breath.

“Charlie,” I said. I am a generous friend, but my tone verged on the taut. “A moment?”

We stepped before the lidded gaze of a fellow wearing leaves for a hat.

I perceived Charlie’s hands grasping at empty air. “I haven’t got to any of these paintings yet,” he said _sotto voce_. The light in him stuttered under a deluge of despair. “We’ve only just reached the Renaissance!”

“You are certain it’s love,” I said. It is important to collect one’s facts.

“Desperately so.”

“That force that lends to man the spirit to endure all ills.”

“Well, most ills.”

“Charlie, I put the thing to you plainly: will you admire who’s-it and what’s-his-name for this woman or won’t you?”

He quailed. He quavered. I venture to say he toed the very precipice of calling it quits.

But in the end, he allowed himself to be shepherded through the lot of the exhibition, digging up several attempts at “Oh, ha,” and even once, shoved bodily into an alcove before a painting of a group staring into a milk crate lit from within, a good swing at our old standby “The light, rather.”

***

“I had anticipated such a possibility, sir,” Jeeves informed me, when I had apprised him of Charlie’s wholesale flop.

“The miracle of it is she’s agreed to see him again. He appeared to have the vocabulary of—what’s the word I want, Jeeves. Starts with a nin—”

“A nincompoop, sir?”

“Precisely. A nincompoop. I do not have it in my heart to condemn the foolishness of a man in love, but dash it, Jeeves, this simply won’t do. And what do you mean, you anticipated such a possibility? Charlie’s studied for weeks.”

“It occurred to me, sir, that the young lady might prefer conversation predicated on a mutual appreciation of the fine arts over that mired in recitation of fact.”

I mulled it over.

“You’re saying she’d get on better with a fellow who knew his horses, as it were.”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Well, it’s a bit too late to do much about it now. Caterpillars can’t be hustled into moths on two days’ notice. Whatever impression of intelligence he conveyed upon first meeting this woman has been thoroughly undone. He could not have seemed more rockish. In fact, I have perceived many a cobble with a great deal more personality, especially when propelled. He could barely muster a ‘ha.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is off the mark for you, Jeeves.”

“Regrettably true, sir.”

“I must profess some disappointment in your approach to the matter.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“He could have sailed through life as the regular sort of stuffed goose, but stuffing him with the medieval has burst his seams.”

“Yes, sir.”

I could see the man was shaken to his very foundations. The idea that a sad situation could lie beyond his gifts must have rattled him. He rippled out of the room and shimmered back in with a glass.

I ruminated on it for the interval of a martini. Every so often, one of Jeeves’s brilliant concoctions is enough in and of itself to knock loose an idea. But today nothing shifted. “I’m fogged, Jeeves,” I said at last. “He was handed the thing practically _fait accompli_. A few ‘hm’s would have sealed it, and he could have proposed by some flowers.”

“If I may, sir.”

“By all means.”

“I have taken the liberty, sir, of inquiring as to another tutor for Mr. Toffleton-Best.”

It is not in my nature to kick a man when he’s down, but the look on my face, I believe, conveyed a subtle scepticism. “I don’t see how more of what sunk him the first time will scud him along this one.”

“This particular tutor’s area of expertise, sir, involves the production of art works.”

“A painter?”

“A portraitist, sir, who due to the vicissitude of the market for portraiture agreed to instruct Mr. Toffleton-Best _gratis_ in exchange for a small number of key introductions to some of his more solvent friends.”

“Bandy the name about, you mean.”

“In a manner of speaking, sir.”

“You think this painter fellow has the strength of character to bring him up to scratch?”

“Undoubtedly, sir.”

“Well, Jeeves,” I said. “My doubts have awoken. Have been shot from slumber, as it were, by that gong of an outing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But this has the spark of something about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may go on with introducing Charlie to the tutor.”

“Very good, sir.”

I let him marinate in that for a bit before getting to the centre of things.

“At times I suspect, Jeeves, that these machinations of yours turn one or two gears too many.”

“Well, sir—”

“You can’t proceed willy-nilly, cogs flying, belts and so forth running every direction, and expect to come out the other end with something so tidy as a woman.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In matters such as these, the simple prevails. Enter Charlie, with a few remarks well prepared. Enter Lula. Stand before a painting or two, eyes frontward. Invite for a walk outdoors instead. Excavate some other point of conversation and leave the whole beastly mess behind.”

“Very perspicuous, sir.”

Something in his tone suggested he thought the path about as wise as gallivanting through a pit of vipers in nothing but his lounge. But that was the trouble with Jeeves. It was all in the brain-waves. You’d have more luck pinning the wind.

***

Many’s a man who has awoken to the day of his doom without so much as a care in the world. He goes about his day, stopping in at the club, popping up to the tailor’s, a lunch with the better element, a cigarette smoked contemplating what it is that makes the sun shine so brightly, and then a wrong step into the street versus a streetcar.

I toddled through my sausage and eggs with all the care of an amnesiac infant. I had not had occasion to see Charlie since his engagement with the new tutor, but we were intended today to visit the Gallery with Lula once more. It is not often that one is allowed to return to harbour for one’s artillery after it is discovered that the cannons have been left ashore, and I had no wish to see Charlie waste it. In deference to Jeeves’s genius, I jostled myself into a subtle tweed, and I will not cloud the truth: I whistled a bit.

Lula and I convened on the steps. She had the look of someone who has just heard sobering news but has decided to put on a brave face. Charlie had not yet appeared. I readied myself for the opening volleys.

“Hullo,” I said.

“Hullo, Bertram,” she returned.

I saw at once we had reached an impasse, and called the draw.

“What’s on the menu today, then?” I inquired.

“Oh, I think the impressionists,” she said. “Have you ever seen anything as enchanting as that dappled water, those candy-floss clouds.”

I told her I was not sure whether I had, and that my recollection of the impressionists bordered on the fuzzy. She said that was entirely all right with her and started in on the variety of boats. That was enough to bridge the time until Charlie arrived.

He puffed a bit from the stairs and from whatever morning exercises had unknotted his tie and splashed orange paint over one of his shoes. I resolved in a moment to illustrate the whole of his ensemble for Jeeves. While I must, sparingly, employ the iron hand and stern calm of the Woosters to quell Jeeves’s more taxing impulses, had I appeared like Charlie in public I fear the man would have simply disassembled off to wherever his particles go when he’s not reassembling them just behind you as you call his name.

“Lula!” Charlie exclaimed. I had not, until that moment, thought him a man to whom one might apply any sort of vigorous verb, but here he was, exclaiming.

Lula looked, in a word, a bit nonplussed. When one expects a man with the constitution of uncooked bacon, the sight of him with not only _vivre_ , but something approaching _joie de_ , is not a little disquieting.

“Lula, darling,” he continued. He clasped her hand between both of his. “Shall we experience it, together? The soul singing through the union of canvas and oils, the gentle rise and fall of the brushstrokes.”

“Charlie, old man,” I said by way of heading off this new vein as Lula’s eyebrows scurried skyward.

“I’ve had the most miraculous morning,” Charlie said. He closed his eyes and swayed. “Have you felt it? The give. The stretch. That acid scent of the spirit of turpentine. The swooping of the brush across the canvas, as arresting as birds in flight.”

Charlie’s manner suggested to me a man who had not so much enjoyed the pleasures of spreading the paint as breathing its fumes.

“Charles,” said Lula. She tugged her hand away and smoothed her skirts. “Calm yourself.”

“My darling,” said Charles. He flung his arms into a gesture even an actor would find excessive. “Bertie? Bertie, dear chap, I must know where you find your pocket squares. Lula, dawn’s own bloom, I’m ready.”

“Well, I don’t believe I am,” said Lula. One hesitates to say, but her voice invoked a winter chill. “When I asked to be accompanied to the Gallery, I thought you—” and here she paused with eyes on the splash of orange paint to hone the icicles “—a gentleman.”

She whirled on me. “And you! Encouraging these flights. Permitting my Charles to be ensnared by the bohemian wiles of your artistic friends. A perfectly good man, singing souls and stroking brushes. Well, I shall expect to see neither one of you again.”

She had nothing to gather but gave the impression of gathering her things, which was a neat trick. The last I saw of her, her skirt whisked into a cab and out of sight.

***

“I must, with heavy heart, tell you that you have utterly failed in this matter, Jeeves,” I told the aforementioned upon returning home. “I’ve never seen a man so animated by grief. He insisted on touring the Gallery anyway, since we were already there. I have had enough of art for several years.”

“I see, sir.”

“I do not intend to further wound, Jeeves, but Charlie specifically asked me who had made my pocket squares.”

“I see, sir.”

“He intends to have some made just like them.”

“To match the paint, sir?”

“To match the— I’m not sure I appreciate that insinuation, Jeeves.”

“No, sir.”

“Charlie is a perfectly well-dressed man, who encountered a moment of abandon, as one does when faced with the possibility of a traipse through a museum with who is not, he informed me, the matched pair to his soul. The things we say to mend our broken hearts, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was practically swimming in despair.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You could see it rising off him like a morning fog.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This scheme of yours has cost him Lula and a pair of shoes. I find it a grave disappointment.”

“I see, sir.”

Upon seeing his remorse flow so freely, my heart softened. “But let us let bygones. We are allowed our moments of incorrect judgment as to psychology.”

“Indeed, sir.”

We left it at that. In the weeks to come, I was occupied first by recovering that escaped parakeet, you know, and then by the package left in a cab, and then by a series of scuffles among the Aunts. When the dust cleared and I had regained hearth and h., my first outing took me to the club, where I chanced across Charlie. He appeared touched by the bloom of youth, which on closer inspection was a dab of red paint, high on his face. “Bertie,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Old friend, it’s good to see you.” And he told me what had happened.

I returned home a changed man. “Jeeves,” I said, “you recall Charlie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of the incident with Lula and the splash of orange paint.”

Jeeves intimated a memory of the particulars.

“He’s in love.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“With a portraitist.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To whom he was introduced through your tutoring plot.”

Jeeves is far too noble a spirit to stoop to the level of a gloat.

“I had wondered whether Mr. Toffleton-Best might find another, more suitable, lady on whom to bestow his affections.”

I revisited the thing in my head. The mind boggled. It was simply too much. Here I had thought Charlie broken up about love lost when he’d been diving brush-first into it.

A surge of pride swelled in my bosom. “Jeeves,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll set out the pocket squares.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may distribute them among the artists.”

While Jeeves’s spirit is noble, it is not impervious to a gesture. His voice nearly rose to the level of an emotion.

“Yes, sir.”

I lit a cigarette and stood at the window. The traffic passed like my thoughts: to and fro, into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I kept the Gallery purposefully vague, because not all these paintings were/are in the same place at the same time. Also not all of them are real.
> 
> The one of the people laughing at a candle is a very loose interpretation of [The Matchmaker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Matchmaker_\(painting\))
> 
> The fellow with leaves for a hat is, of course, Caravaggio's [Bacchus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bacchus_\(Caravaggio\)).
> 
> The genre of people looking into a lit milk crate isn't a particular painting, but a nod to the fad of painting glowing Nativity scenes.


End file.
